Some Things Do
by InDreamsMayCome
Summary: Sequel to On From Here.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Gilmore Girls.

Sometimes the things you want most in life just don't seem to want you. Sometimes they're tricky, evasive, slipping through your fingers, dangling ever so wickedly just out of reach. Sometimes they let you get oh so close, so that you'll forever have that memory of what it was like to become alive, alive in a way that so far beyond the normal level of living that it seems almost unfathomable that such a feeling could even exist at all—let alone have happened to you. But it did. It did because every time you close your eyes, close your eyes and just breathe, you're reminded that you can inhaling the cleanest, freshest, most beautiful air, sucking in through your nostrils and let it soak through every pore in your body, and though it will trickle through you in the sweetest of ways, though it will help pump the blood through your veins and help your heart 'thud' just a little clearer, it won't come close to feeling like you know it could. It takes something more than just oxygen, this extra form of 'alive' does. It takes something else, something you can't quite put your finger on, some chemical or pollen or bacteria even—or maybe something psychological, something inside of you all along that can only be released at such a level as this—whatever it is it mixes with the oxygen to whoosh through you like no other source of adrenaline known to man, to seep into every cell your body holds, and to fill you lungs so that you're sure that they expand past anything they were ever meant to do and then somehow it all shoots straight to your heart, your soul, and even if your ninth grade biology teacher would pull her hair out at how anatomically incorrect your theory is you understand it's just because she doesn't know, she hasn't felt it yet. Such a feeling doesn't exist in a textbook, but it's a truth nonetheless, a truth that once you come close to breathing in, won't let you rest until you've uncovered its source once again.

For Luke Danes, such a feeling existed solely in Lorelai Gilmore.

Some people go their whole life through without ever knowing they've missed out on such a level of existence. Some people experience it once and spend their whole life searching for any semblance of a thing that might allow them to feel that way for just one more breath, one more moment. And a rare few are able to hang on and never let go.

After two years, Luke Danes found himself dangling somewhere between the latter two.

He shifted his weight uneasily on the worn sofa, definitely second hand, maybe even third, and watched the pads of his fingers flatten and then slowly regain their normal, calloused shape as they pushed into each other, held the tension for a moment, and then released, moving slowly away from each other, but never quite breaking that skin-to-skin contact before pushing into each other again. He didn't mind sitting alone, hell he'd spent much of his life sitting alone, but this was different. Uncertainty hung over him like a dark cloud and the unknown swirled before his eyes everywhere he looked. A man born and raised in Stars Hallow wasn't used to such feelings. Hell, in that town it wasn't unusual to clear a day on the calendar just to mark down when you were going to fold the tablecloth or tighten the screw on the door hinge. Uncertainty was as foreign as heavy traffic. A person could grow accustomed to that. That's why he had given up on looking around at things he didn't know begun staring at his hands. They shook a bit but he blamed it on the right leg that he'd been bouncing up and down ever since the moment he took his seat on the uncomfortable cushions. Nervous energy, his father would have called it. Maybe. Luke, however, was better suited to blame it on the swirl of competing noise streaming in through the closed window. New York City alive and bustling in the morning rush hour was nothing but a headache to him, and it did little for his nerves. He took a deep breath and chanced a glance at the clock hanging on the wall to his right. A whoosh of air escaped him as his eyes drifted back to staring at his fingers.

_"Hey how's it coming up there?"_

_"Just fine, dear!"_

_"Fine, eh?" Luke's father chuckled so only his son could hear. He glanced down at the boy, his eyes twinkling, before turning back to the stairs to call out, "I don't suppose that means you're ready then?"_

_"Almost!" came the melodic reply of Luke's mother's voice._

_Luke breathed deeply from his spot on the bottom step, hands cupping his chin, elbows propped on his knees. He was glad his parents thought he was old enough to go into the city with them to see a play on the big stage. It was a 'sight,' or so he was told. However, at the rate they were going he could have easily finished watching the baseball game on TV and still gotten ready before his mother._

_"It was 'almost' a half hour ago," Buddy commented, laughing, as he settled down on the couch, sitting Liz on his lap. "Good thing I'm not charging you by the hour William," he said with a wink._

_Luke's father shot him a grin and took a seat on the step besides his son. "Luke," he said, "a man could spend his whole life waiting on a woman."_

_Luke felt his eyebrows arch. According to Buddy it had only been a half hour since they were supposed to leave and he wasn't sure he could sit still much longer then that, let alone his whole life._

_"Dad," he said quietly, "doesn't that sound kinda, um, crazy to you?"_

_Smiling his father placed a large palm on the top of Luke's head and smoothed his brown hair. "Absolutely."_

_"Absolutely what?" his mother's voice appeared at the top of the staircase._

_Both figures on the bottom step rose and turned to face the woman standing above them donning a new dress made of a silky deep green and a face smoothed by freshly applied make-up, framed by a few strategically loose strands not included in the up-do. She descended the stairs and father and son parted to let her pass. Luke's father took the string of pearls from her outstretched hand and expertly clasped them around her neck._

_"Absolutely beautiful," he said._

_His wife turned to face him, smiling. "Good answer," she replied, pulling on her long black coat and bending to help Luke with his the zipper on his. "I have to get my purse, I'll meet you boys in the car." Placing a soft kiss on top of Luke's head she turned and strode towards the kitchen._

_Once outside, and out of hearing range, Luke glanced up at his father, who was digging out his car keys. "Your whole life?" He questioned again._

_His father nodded and turned the key in the door, unlocking the driver's side door of his blue truck. "Mmhmm." He waited for Luke to climb up into the middle of the bench seat. "But," he added softly as the two heard Buddy yelling his good-byes and the front door shut, "it's worth it."_

"Hey."

Luke jerked his head up at the sound, slightly startled. A freshly showered Lorelai Gilmore stood in front of him, clad in hip hugger jeans and a light blue blouse that seemed custom made for her eyes. Seating herself on the coffee table in front of him she took his clasped hands in hers. "You okay?"

"Uh," he cleared his throat, "yeah. Yeah."

She cocked her head a bit to the side, studying him before answering. "Alright."

He looked back at her. "What?"

"Well I was calling you but either there was something incredibly fascinating about those fingers of yours, or you were lost in some serious thought…and I'm not sure if that's good or bad." She gave a nervous laugh at that.

He drew in a breath, a real, lung-filling breath, and offered her a smile. "Fingernails," he said, holding them up for her to see, "they're filthy. My mother would have had a fit."

True explanation or not, something about Luke Danes fretting over dirty finger nails made Lorelai succumb to a fit of laughter. Melodic bouncing laughter that sprung off every wall of the small apartment, drowning out the hectic city chaos below them and the tearing uncertainty that had settled in Luke's gut. There was a lot to be sorted out, but right now that laughter was all he wanted to hear, to feel. He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them softly, his eyes never leaving hers. He breathed in the scent of her skin…peach and…at least two other things that should probably never be mixed together on anyone or anything other than Lorelai Gilmore. She let out another soft giggle at his gesture and he tried to overlook the nervousness that he knew lay hinged on its edges.

"Ready?" she questioned.

"As I'll ever be," he chuckled.

"You, mister, are going to _love _New York."

"Lorelai, I've already been to New York, several times, and I have yet to even find reason to _like _it…"

"Psh," she dismissed him with a wave of her hand as she dragged him to his feet and towards the door, grabbing her purse on the way, "that's cuz you've never seen _my _New York."

There was an uncomfortable silence when both recalled the reasons she _had_ a New York to claim as her own and for a moment neither could meet the other's gaze.

Finally Luke cleared his throat. "Lorelai, maybe we shouldn't do it this way. Maybe we should just sit and talk…"

She shook her head, cutting him off. "One day Luke, we agreed. One day together before we try to shift through everything, air all the dirty laundry…and you _know_ how I feel about laundry…"

Even he had to laugh at that.

"…I just…I'm not ready yet, Luke, I'm not ready to have those conversations. I'm finally happy…after two years I know what happy feels like again…I know there's a lot to talk about and…and that talk might not go well." She looked at her feet, shifting slightly, "I want one day, and if this ends up being our only day, well at least I'll have this…"

"I understand that," he said, tilting her chin up so he could see her eyes, "but we can't even get out the door without…"

"I know. And we're going to hit many more. Today, and everyday…if there is an everyday. But let's just overlook them. Just for today. No thinking about the past. No thinking about the future. No explaining ourselves to anyone—Rory, my parents, Sookie, Stars Hallow…even to ourselves. Just _being_, okay? You and me, just being?"

The rational part of him knew he should argue with this, knew that they _had_ to talk, had to clear the air, to figure things out, figure themselves out…but her eyes were just so blue, and she just smelled so much like how he remembered, and she was just so…so…so _Lorelai_, all he could do was nod and allow her to lead him out into the mayhem that was New York City. He knew he would probably regret the decision later, but at that moment all that mattered to him was that soft hand gripping his wrist, pulling him along into the unknown.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Gilmore Girls.

"I am _not_ eating that."

"Oh, a little more mustard please," she asked the vendor as she stood on tiptoes peering into the stand, as if fearful there might be some condiment she could miss. "Oh! Oh! Relish! Put some more relish on that one!"

Smiling widely she turned to Luke, ignoring both his refusal and his defiant body language—arms crossed tightly over a puffed out chest, brow furrowed just a bit. "See?" she asked proudly. She allowed a few milliseconds for a response before supplying the answer herself. "Green! Relish is green! Green is healthy! You'll _love_ this!"

"Lorelai, I am _not_ eating that," he heard himself repeat.

Again his words went seemingly unheard as she once again turned back to the vendor, making a show of struggling to hold both hot dogs and retrieve her wallet from purse. "Luke, you're going to have to hold these so I can pay the man."

"I'm not…"

"Luke, it would be very bad if we didn't pay the man."

Her tone was playful but the steely gaze of the man behind the silver metal hot dog stand was not. Sighing deeply he held out his palms allowing her to place the unwelcome food items in his possession as she riffled through her purse.

"Great," she said after the monetary exchange was done. In one swift motion she had spun away from the stand, removed her hotdog from his hand, and begun moving down the street, leaving him stuck with the remaining dog and nothing to do but tighten his grasp on it and stride after her.

"Loerlai…" he shook his head, almost sure he could see her mischievous grin through her brown hair. It took him only a few strides to fall into step with her and one more to cut in front of her, turning so that they were face to face. He extended his now hot dog clad hand towards her. "I am _not_ eating this."

Her eyes sparkled, unaffected by his refusal. "But I bought it for you." Her lips began to form a small pout.

"No…"

"Yes, yes I did. I paid him with my own money!"

"No…I mean…yes…"

"Exactly. I opened this pocket of my purse right here and dug under the gum wrappers until I found my wallet…"

"What I mean is I didn't ask for it! I can't eat this, Lorelai!" He looked disgustedly at the object lying in his palm. "Ugh, how could anyone eat this…"

The last comment was more thinking out loud than an actual question but Lorelai grinned widely at him and took the biggest bite he'd ever seen anyone take out of anything, mustard shooting along the corners of her mouth. "Iwf gouwf," she smiled, a mouth full of stale bun flashing before his face.

He felt his eyebrows raise.

"It's good," she repeated, still chewing.

"How can you eat that this early in the morning? Do you have any idea what something like this does to your digestive tract? Do you know what they put in these things to begin with? Let alone when bought off the back of someone's bicycle! These condiments could be God knows how old, left out in the sun, flies have probably crawled over every inch of this! I mean the bacteria count alone…" he paused mid-sentence, mid-breath as he meet her gaze. "What?"

She gave him a small, tight-lipped smile, keeping her head tilted and her gaze steady for a moment before shaking it away. "Nothing," she said softly.

He shifted his weight a bit, nervously, and let out a soft, shaky laugh. "No, not nothing, what?"

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears and shrugged a bit as she continued to gaze up at him. "I was just…thinking, that's all."

"About hot dogs? Cuz if I was standing there thinking about it I'd be a lot closer to puking and a lot less…smiley." He laughed at his own choice of words.

She glanced down at the mustard soaked mess in her hand. "Yeah, about hot dogs…" Her gaze floated back to his face.

"And?" he prodded.

"And…" she shrugged and looked out at the street, watching the traffic creep forward, despite the red light. "And how some things change…but some things don't…and…and it's just nice to know, that's all." She turned back to face him, smile gone, eyes earnest.

He nodded. "Some things don't," he heard himself repeat softly. She looked ready to continue their walk but he felt his gaze fall to the hot dog still resting in his hand. Taking a deep breath he raised it to his mouth, closed his eyes, and took a bite large enough to match the one she had taken. Bits of loose relish sprinkled the sidewalk by his feet and he had to lean forward to keep from spilling any dripping condiments on his shirt.

Her eyes bulged slightly, as if she was unable to believe what she had just seen. As Luke struggled to chew the gooey processed mess he saw her raise one hand to her mouth, trying to both cover her smile and stifle her laugh, but doing neither quite in time.

"What on earth…?" she laughed, eyes still wide as Luke took another bite, and another, finishing the hot dog quickly, tossing the wrapper in the garbage can behind him and, seeing neither had had the foresight to grab napkins, wiping his fingers on the thighs of his blue jeans.

Swallowing the last bit he noted that it actually hadn't been bad, although if he had any pride left he'd never tell her that. When he felt his mouth was clear again he locked his eyes into hers, allowing the casualness of his tone to be over ridden by the steadiness of his gaze, as he said, "Some things don't…but some other things _can_."

He saw her straighten a bit at this, her head tilting back slightly as she did so, a gesture she completed rarely, as it wasn't often she didn't know what to say.

He cleared his throat, nodded softly at her and moved himself out of her path and back to her side. Her eyes followed him, and he decided to give her something else to respond to before the mood became too serious too early on. She followed as he stepped forward on the cracked concrete and he jabbed her lightly in the ribs. "Better hurry up," he nodded at the uneaten half of hot dog she was still holding, "it's not like you to fall behind in the food count." She blinked at him for a moment before laughing and responding with another large bite.

"See," she said after chewing this time, "I knew you'd like it."

He shook his head in mock defeat. "Alright crazy lady, where to now?"

Next to him Lorelai tossed the now empty wrapper into a near by trashcan as they passed. "Onward!" she cried, extending her right arm out in front of her and pointing up the street.

Luke rolled his eyes playfully skyward and, following her lead, quickened his pace.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Gilmore Girls

**Author's Note:** Thanks for all the support so far. I wasn't originally planning on a sequel but the support for On From Here really stayed with me so I thought I'd give it another go. The chapters will get longer as it goes on...

Luke couldn't help but find himself marveling at the scene around him. Briefcase barring, suit-clad Fortune 500 wannabes brushed by him, cars honked noisily in the street, a couple, who looked like they actually might just now be ending their adventures from the night before, hailed a cab, a green leashed poodle yapped wildly at a chunky golden lab who growled in return but nevertheless backed behind its owner's leg. He found himself sidestepping quickly to allow a jogger to pass, able to hear the bass of his workout music despite his use of ear bud headphones and when he heard Lorelai stifle a laugh next to him he knew she was thinking what he was: no man should ever be seen in shorts that short—running or not. A squirrel poked its head out of a garbage can to his right, a Big Mac wrapper wedged between its paws, and an oddly guilty look on its face.

Everywhere he turned, anywhere he looked, life seemed…normal. Despite his lack of familiarity with city lifestyles, he had seen enough TV to know that this was just about how things should go on a regular old day-to-day basis and, well, he couldn't quite figure out how he felt about that. It was almost angering really. The world kept spinning on its axis, just as it had for the past two years…and yet for Luke, time had stood still. He had spent months in his apartment, locked away from everyone, everything, and had spent the rest of the time locked away even further within himself. Yet, looking at the world around him it was almost tempting to believe that none of it had happened, that he had gone to sleep one night and had an awful nightmare of a dream and awoken this morning. He found himself double checking the date on the front page of _The New York Times _as they passed a news stand just to be sure the date was as he thought it should be.

He wanted to grab some of the people as they passed by: the runner, the sunglass wearing three piece suit man, the bum sitting in a doorway, the cop directing traffic. He wanted to grab any of them, _all_ of them, grab them by the shoulders, shake them and yell, "What's wrong with you?! How can you just keep on jogging by me like that? How can you stroll by with that cell phone pressed to your ear? How can you sit there panhandling for change like that? How can you stand there with that whistle in your mouth directing traffic? How on earth can you go about doing what you've always done? Don't you know what's happened! Don't you know what is happen_ing_? Can't you see? All of you! Look at me! Can't you see? Can't you see what's happening to me? To us?"

It was a senseless rant, of course. He'd never seen these people before in his life and they likewise had never seen him. His life meant nothing to them—they had no idea what he had been through the past two years, nor would they care if they did. He wasn't trying to be cynical really—it was just the truth. He was sure he could spill his saga to any random passer-by and he'd get the sympathetic looks, pats on the back, apologetic words—all of which would be genuine enough he was sure. But then they would part ways and he would still have two years of misery breathing down his neck and a future that scared him far too much to attempt prediction. And the sympathetic ear? Well, he or she would have something new to discuss over their dinner table but ultimately they would go about their lives much like they were now, hardly giving his grief a second thought.

It was the way of the world really—to you it could absolutely appear to end, and yet, it kept on spinning. It wasn't cruel so much as necessary, he knew this, but he couldn't help finding it utterly remarkable nonetheless. He glanced at the dark haired beauty walking along beside him, reassuring himself briefly that it wasn't a mirage and felt himself shake his head slowly as he struggled to take it all in. Two lives hung in balance—not just their happiness he knew, but their very_ being_—and yet all around him millions of others raced on—unmoved and utterly unaware.

He glanced again at Lorelai, her gaze fixed upon a little girl in a ballerina costume walking besides a grey stroller her mother was pushing. The girl was practicing blowing bubble gum bubbles and with each try the pink mess grew larger and larger. He caught the amusement in her eyes as she awaited not just the inevitable messy 'pop', but also the prime and proper looking mother's reaction to it. She was all he had, Luke realized. Whether they made it past today or not, made it past their impending discussion or not, made it past whatever hurdle would lie next it didn't matter. No one else in the world, not April, not Liz, not Stars Hallow, not anyone, for as much or as little as they cared for him would be truly able to fathom what the past two years had been like, what walking along besides her now was like, what his tomorrow would be like. No one, but her. They were alone in the world in that sense…and Luke honestly wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

"_Hey, are you good at dating?"_

"_What?" Okay, she had been known to ramble off some pretty strange and random things but he was sure he hadn't heard that one right._

"_Dating, do you have that down?"_

_Nope, she really had said it. He sighed, tired of their argument already. He was upset, sure, that she obviously thought a guy that looked about twelve was more suitable for dating than he was, but hey that was her preference then, right? Who was he to get mad at her about it? He tried to think of the quickest way to diffuse the argument he felt brewing, "Okay, if this is about that kid, then…"_

"_No," she shook her head, " it's not about anything, it's just a question." Her tone had remained light—serious, but light. She wasn't trying to spark an argument, which he found strange after their bout that afternoon, but he decided to give earnestness a chance._

"_Well," he responded, still tinkering with his watch for distraction but trying to keep his tone equally light, " I don't know if I have it down. Considering I live with my nephew, I'd say probably not."_

_She grinned at that. "I don't have it down either," she confessed. "I've never been very good at it really. I've never even really liked it. Too much 'what if'. I like things I can count on. I mean, uh, actually, with Max," she faltered as his head jerked up at the sound of her ex's name and though she looked momentarily uncomfortable she continued quickly, " it was the first time I was finally like 'Hey, here it is, that one person who will always be there for me.' And then, I turned around, and it's suddenly 'Oops, wrong, keep moving.'"_

_He had given her nothing but crap that afternoon and now here she was, opening up to him without any prodding, volunteering information that made her, despite the lightness in her tone, almost vulnerable. He couldn't stop himself from blurting out a blunt, "Why are you telling me this?"_

_He watched her take a breath before answering, which made him leave his watch well enough alone, knowing whatever was coming was obviously important. "I don't have very many people in my life who are in my life permanently forever. They will always be there for me. I will always be there for them, you know?" She met his gaze firmly before continuing, "There's Rory, and Sookie, and this town and ... you." She let out a nervous laugh. " I mean, at least I think I've got..."_

"_You do," he confirmed and when she smiled in return he could almost see the relief that washed over her._

Luke wasn't sure where that memory had come from, where any of them came from for that matter, but he caught himself wondering when it was that he had changed so. When was it that his being there for her had changed from a thing of consistency, dependability, stability, reassurance, and unconditionality to something that occurred simply because there was no one else that could comprehend their situation. What had happened to him? Was it April? Or was it more than that?

He wanted to turn, to take her in his arms, look her in the eye, and scream "you do" over and over and over until all of New York had heard his message. He wanted to reaffirm to her who he once was, that he loved her like that again, that he had always loved her like that, even if he had screwed up in showing it. But he couldn't. Not yet. Things had happened, he reminded himself, things that he had to be able to forgive. And even if he could, more things were going to happen. They would have to leave New York at some point and their old lives would be waiting for them, prying with questions and demanding answers—answers that he wasn't sure he would have. There would be April too, April wanting to know where she fit, how she fit, where she would be on his priority list? Would she resent Lorelai for running away? Would Lorelai resent April for being the spark that started it all? What about Rory? What about…?

He was shaken from his thoughts by Lorelai's voice calling him and her hand waving in front of his face. "Hey, youuuu-whooo, Lukeeeee!"

"Huh?"

She laughed, "Stay with me here buddy."

"Sorry," he said, offering her a sheepish grin.

She put a hand lightly on his chest and he wondered if she could feel his heart jump at the contact. "No head starts, okay? I need to be…I _want_ to be with you when we hash this all out. Please? I know you like to process and all…but Luke we need to process this one together. We need to be on the same page. Please?"

He felt himself blink at her a few times, shocked his line of thought had been that obvious. But then again he knew he shouldn't have been. She had known him better than almost anyone ever had, second only to his father. Despite the past two years, he knew that fact still stood. He nodded at her. "I'm trying. Really." He breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind. "Promise."

She smiled at him and he found himself thinking that even though he had no idea what sort of path she'd be taking him on today (both literally and metaphorically speaking), he knew that not only did he not mind, but he'd follow her to the ends of the earth, even if it was the last thing he would ever do. He was laying his life on the line here. He knew it. And all it took was that instant for him to decide it was worth it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Gilmore Girls.

"You're kidding right?"

She turned, her brown hair fluttering out behind her as she did so, and gave him a horrified look. "Luke, I _never_ kid about coffee."

He shook his head at the situation but held up his hands in mock defeat. "My mistake."

"Come on, I won't even make you drink it…there's tea too ya know."

"But…a coffee house? Honestly?"

"Not just _a_ coffee house, _my_ coffee house." She grinned at him, seeing him start to waver in his stubbornness. Her blue eyes sparkled as she nodded her head for emphasis.

Lifting his head skyward to take in the towering maroon storefront and bright yellow script letters proclaiming the words "Java City," he released a sigh of defeat. Lorelai let out a squeal of delight as she watched his hand move to the brass handle to open the door for her. God, he had missed that sound.

"Oh Jacobbbbb!" Lorelai called out, barely even inside the door.

"Hey Lorelai!" The kid that had taken Luke's order not twenty-four hours ago dropped his book and jumped to his feet behind the counter, sloppy grin on his face.

"Oh Lorelai! Hello darling!" A woman, who looked to be in her late 50s despite her long very bleached blonde hair, called out from table near the window, a pink sweatered Chihuahua in one arm, a large Styrofoam cup in the other.

"Hi Stella!" Lorelai smiled, walking over to where she sat. "Hey there Rascal, how are you ya crazy pup?" she asked while playfully scratching the dog's ears. "How's Alan?" she asked the woman as she continued to make faces at the fuzz ball.

"Oh, you know Alan…" the woman trailed off, glancing over at Lorelai as realization dawned on her, "No, I suppose you don't do you?" She set the cup down, freeing up one hand for gesturing, and continued, "He's never been in here in the mornings. Well, anywho, you've heard enough about him to feel like you've known him…" The woman trailed off again as her low laugh turned into a small coughing fit. Lorelai turned from the dog and pushed the woman's coffee cup closer to her. Smoker's cough, Luke concluded. After a few sips she gathered herself and continued, unfazed, "He's looking for a new get rich quick scheme. He's goin uptown and then he's goin downtown and…" She paused, looking past Lorelai, for the first time taking in Luke. "Darling," she said, her voice lowered but not to the point where Luke couldn't clearly hear their conversation, "is he with you?"

Lorelai laughed, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. "Now, now, Stella, don't go trying to throw me into your gossip mill…"

"Well it's just that you've _never_ come in here with anyone before…Darling," she said as if the realization was just dawning on her, "is he your boyfriend? Do you have a boyfriend? I mean you've never mentioned him…my…my, my…a year of coffee shop meetings and you know Alan and I from head to toe and here Rascal and I barely know a thing about _you_…" Peeking around Lorelai's shoulder she gave look a once over concluding, in her not so discrete whisper tone, "He can't _possibly_ be from Florida….Is he?"

At this Lorelai's laughter was genuine. "No, no, Stella, he's not." In almost the same breathe she had switched her attention back to Jacob and begun gliding to the other side of the room calling, "How's that macchiato coming?"

"It's been ready for almost a minute!"

She feigned shock. "You've been holding out on me!"

"Please, a little more credit where credit is due!" the boy cried, retaking his seat on the wooden stool behind the counter but not bothering to pick his book back up. "I'd be out of a job if I couldn't put that masterpiece together in under thirty seconds from the moment you stepped through that door."

"Jacob, my man, you're too good to me." She picked up the cup and took a sip, giving the boy a satisfactory smile.

Luke fought the urge to roll his eyes as the love struck kid looked like he could have floated off on cloud nine. Then again, he chastised himself, he didn't know what he had to feel so smug about. It wasn't so long ago that the same exchange, with the same results had been happening to him. He took a deep breath, fighting the dark cloud in the pit of his stomach from rising up. He gave Lorelai a sideways look, wondering how she could be so bright, bubbly, happy. Nothing had been resolved between them, not really. They had settled into some much needed contentment last night, a chance to feel whole again. But that's all it was really, a _chance_. Sure, it was nice walking around together, being in each other's company again. He understood her point about wanting, needing, a small amount of time, just a day, to be happy, unburdened by, well, by everything before they both had to jump back into modes of seriousness, of hurt, of reliving pain and suffering, of accusations, of apologies, of uncertainty. He understood all that. But she was doing such a damned good job of compartmentalizing it was actually starting to concern him…

"Here," she broke into his thoughts again. He looked down to see her handing him a cup. "It's tea don't worry. You can smell it first if you don't believe me."

"No…I mean…uh…" He snapped his jaw shut, took a deep breath. In a way maybe it was all how it should have been—her seemingly perfect, flawless and him a rambling, self-conscious idiot. His previous concerns still weighed on him and his resurfacing insecurities about his worthiness of being in a relationship with Lorelai Gilmore wasn't helping. Get it together, he told himself. Finally he opened his eyes. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." She was looking at him curiously but said nothing.

He had had his wallet half way out to pay—she had picked up the hot dogs so, even if it was far from his place of choice it seemed only fair—but he realized Lorelai had yet to make an attempt to pay and the Jacob kid, clearly not thrilled by Luke's presence, had returned half-heartedly to his book, utterly unconcerned with attempting anything involving the cash register. He wondered if he should offer nonetheless, but decided against it. Lorelai seemed to have some sort of routine down here—here in the shop and here in the city—and, he was beginning to realize, he was still an outsider to that. This was her life, on which she was letting him in on no doubt, but one she had formed without him nonetheless. He decided it would be in his best interest to gage his actions, and reactions for that matter, carefully and not throw a kink into her new sense of normalcy.

He gestured, with a jerk of his head, over his right shoulder to an empty table near the back of the shop. Lorelai looked at him for a moment, clearly surprised by his suggestion that they spend any more time than necessary in a place where you could get a caffeine buzz from merely taking too deep a breath, but quickly took him up on it nonetheless.

Luke was already running his hand over the table's surface, inspecting the rugged patterns of chipped, colored glass that formed its top, curious as to what owner would feel this to be an appropriate, let alone alluring, place for paying customers to sit, when he realized Lorelai was no longer a step behind him. Looking up he spotted her standing patiently next the a woman, three tables back, who was writing with something, he thought, akin to what must be meant by 'lightening speed,' into a spiral notebook. After studying her a moment recognition flashed over him and he recognized the red haired, long skirted figure as having been in the exact same spot, doing the exact same thing as when he saw her yesterday. She was the one that had reminded him of Jess and he stopped just short of musing out loud as to whether or not she had actually gone home that night. Perhaps, he thought, Jacob and little Betty Lou, or whatever the coffee girl from yesterday's name was, had just turned out the lights, closed the doors, and locked up, leaving hippie red head here alone in the dark, unmoving and unhindered, writing like her life depended on it. The odd, less rational part of Luke couldn't help wondering if maybe somehow, possibly in some metaphorical way, it did and before he could close off that goofy side of himself he couldn't help feeling just the slightest connection with her at that. If only there was an action, he thought, a concrete thing that he could just _do_, do over and over again for as long as it took that could save him, save them. If only he could sit in a coffee shop and write day in and day out, write a book, write novel, write thousands of novels, in order to save them, to save their lives. He was very good at doing, he knew that, but the time for actions seemed to have long passed and, as the churning feeling deep in his gut refused to let him forget, words and feelings and everything else he had ever run from were now the only things he had to work with.

He almost fell over when the girl, without warning looked up, in a way that looked like coming out of a trance, and smiled sloppily at Lorelai. "Ohhhhh, hiiii," she greeted softly, painfully drawing out the words.

"Hey, September," Lorelai smiled.

September? Luke hoped that was a nickname…

"Well I don't want to keep you," Lorelai went on, "but I was dying to know what you thought of that CD I told you about."

"Ohhhh, Lorelai, it was perrrrrfect," she drawled. "_The Unforgettable Fire_, ohhh, even the title gives me goose bumps nowww!"

Okay, Luke thought tiredly, no one _actually_ talks like that…

"I told you, Bono is your man. Did you listen to "Bad"?"

"Anyway we were in London and we ran into this group of girls who were heading to Dublin to stake out the Clarence Hotel." She says it like it's the most logical thing in the world. Like anyone with nothing better to do would just jet off to Ireland to hang out in a hotel for the weekend.

_He feels the obligatory, "Why?" come out of his mouth. It's almost a subconscious reaction at this point, to react to one of her stories with what really is the most logical response in the world…for most people anyway.  
_

"_Because U2 owns it and Bono hangs out there."_

"_Ah. Him again." Though his name hung on her lips a little to long for Luke's liking he understands now that, in her universe at least, her reaction merely followed suit of the way all things should work._

"The "MLK" track was my favorite," hippie girl was saying, as Luke tuned back into the present.

Lorelai just shook her head, seemingly awestruck by the mere mention of the song. "Bono is a god," she agreed.

Luke soured at her words, at the memory, at both. Bono again. And again. And again. Bono, it seemed, would have Lorelai forever. As for himself, as for old coffee making, diner owning Luke? His 'forever' could now potentially be measured in mere hours.

He sunk into a hard, unforgiving metal chair as he watched Lorelai wrap up her conversation and meander towards him, while red-head took up her pen and began to once again shoot it across the page. Luke traced patterns absently onto the top of the white plastic lid on the cup of his tea and, sitting with his back to the wall, let his gaze drift out, past Lorelai who was now sitting across from him, and let it flicker around the crowded shop, taking it all in, committing it to memory…just…well, just in case…

"Sooo?" Lorelai's slow, somewhat tentative drone of the word forced Luke to focus his eyes once again on her.

He cleared his throat. "So?" He repeated, just as softly, simply because he wasn't sure what she might want to hear from him right now.

Lorelai let out a nervous laugh. Nerves and an attempt to keep it all light hearted, up beat. "Thoughts?"

She wasn't going to let him off easy. Luke glanced at the bleach blonde and her dog at the far corner of the room. "Well," he started uncertainly, "they…know you."

She shrugged slightly, turning her cup in her hands, smile of the character that matched her previous laugh glued to her lips. "They know…" she searched for the right words, "of me."

Luke raised his eyebrows. She looked at him and looked down again at her coffee cup. She didn't offer anything else. He sighed, hearing himself almost deflate as he did so. He couldn't help it. Maybe it was just that action that prodded him to vocalize what was really weighing on him, thoughts meant more for himself than her. "You rebuilt it."

"What?"

"Your own little corner of the world." He couldn't look at her. The window to his left proved distraction enough. One cab cut off another. Four pigeons flocked around the blue legs of a mailbox. He didn't add the rest of his thoughts. He didn't need to. _One with out them. Any of them. And most especially, one without him._

"I…" she started and stopped. Her eyes glued to their own reflection in the glass shards of the tabletop. Multiple reflections staring back at her in shades of green, red, orange, and brown…any color but blue.

He kept his head trained towards the window but chanced a glance at her out of the corner of his eyes nonetheless. "It had to be a coffee place, huh?"

There was a moment of silence, leaving Luke to brood in his own sense of betrayal, before she spoke. "I never got coffee."

He let out a sharp puff of air. One that could have been construed as a laugh under circumstances of less tension. "Sorry?" He directed his gaze pointedly at the cup in her hand.

"I never got coffee, Luke." She lifted her head and, finding his eyes met his gaze.

"Then what…"

"Macchiatos, cappuccinos, lattes, you name it—double the espresso, heap on the whip cream, mix in some cinnamon, lather it with caramel…the works. Everyday. Multiple times a day. At all hours. But," she spoke slower now, as if willing him to understand, "not coffee. Never just _coffee_. Not once."

He swallowed. She dropped his gaze, finding instead invisible lint to pick off the sleeve of her blouse. He wasn't sure how to take that. He knew what he wanted it to mean but… He rubbed his temple. He was beginning to hate the mere act of thinking.

"I ran from everything, Luke," her voice broke through the silence, catching him off guard as she continued, "everything I'd come to know, to trust, to want. I closed the door on it all. I wanted…I needed…anunimity…" She laughed. "I thought about using a fake name. I liked Scarlet Johansen, but then I realized it was pretty much taken…"

He felt himself chuckle softly at that as he stared fixedly at the work his thumb and forefingers were doing in making little tears on the edge of the cup.

"Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name…" She glanced around, stopping short. "Sorry," she laughed, apologizing for her off-tune-ness. "I couldn't resist."

He shrugged. "If it was good enough for Norm…" He looked up in time to see her mouth gape a bit. "What?" he smiled, proud of himself. "You don't think I watched _Cheers_? I have seem _some_ TV shows in my life."

"Why Luke Danes!" she mused in mock surprise, in a mock Southern accent.

The corners of his mouth tweaked for just a moment before she turned serious again. The banter didn't last long, but God had it felt good.

"They don't know my name though," she said, surprising him again. "Well," she reconsidered, "some do I suppose. I'm not in Witness Protection or anything. But, most probably don't."

He looked at her. "Probably?"

She shrugged. "It's not Stars Hallow, Luke. It's New York. People have secrets. People run away from their secrets and, in some cases, people run with their secrets. Life, in terms of familiarity, becomes what you're willing to expose over a cup of coffee. They know my face, they know the last state I lived in, they know I have a daughter. Some may know less, most don't know more. No one asks, it's just the way it is. Look around, Luke," she said, watching as he did so. "We're not a community, but we're a comfort. I could never rebuild what I left. And I was never looking to."

Luke pursed his lips, nodding at this. Nodding and taking it all in, what she said, what she meant. He didn't react to any of it right away and she looked like she didn't expect him to. Maybe, didn't want him to.

"Ready?" she finally asked him.

He drained the last of his tea, nodded, and stood up, following her out of the shop, tossing away the cup, all torn up and tattered along the top, in the trashcan on his way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Gilmore Girls.

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry to have left this story for so long, but I was to sincerely thank the many kind reviewers...otherwise I think this story might have died out completely.

With his hands stuffed deep in his jeans pockets, Luke strolled along side Lorelai. He tried to make a conscious effort to keep his face neutral, to keep his eyes moving about the busy sidewalk and adjacent street, as if he was just taking in the city, mindlessly absorbing just another day. Inside, however he was concentrating. Concentrating on not thinking things through because she had asked him not to, not yet. Concentrating on how ridiculous that was because the longer they waited to talk the harder it was bound to be. Concentrating on whether he had a right to be angry with her at all, or if he should just feel relieved to be here with her. Concentrating on how much of a right she still had to be angry at him, hoping that perhaps she was grateful for this second chance, if you could call it that. Concentrating on where the hell she could have been all this time and how she could have not even once called. Concentrating on how if it was him who had run, would he have had the guts to call, to reconnect?

"Oh!" she stops beside him and he looks over at her in time to watch her bend down and scoop something up off the sidewalk. Grinning she holds it up to the light, blows some dust off and sticks it in her jeans pocket. "It's good luck," she tells him.

"What is it?"

"A fake buffalo head nickel!"

"A what?"

She looks at him like he should be riding the short bus to school. "A. Fake. Buffalo. Head. Nickel." she repeats slowly, shaking her head at him.

He feels his eyebrows raise as he crosses his arms in front of him and wonders if she does this on purpose, actually plans these goofy moments out, or if she really does just create this madness up on the spot. If there's one thing he knows for sure it's that with Lorelai Gilmore any and all things are possible. "Care to explain?" he prods her, as he always does, and then immediately wonders why he feeds into her craziness, just as he always has.

Her smile widens and her eyes sparkle, specks of reflected sunlight dancing in a sea of blue, and he knows she was hoping he would ask and he is glad he did, even if it makes him almost as crazy as she is. "Well," she begins, her dark curls bouncing a bit in all her excitement, "see there were real buffalo head nickels back in, um," she pauses, looks skyward, "1892 but now there aren't and that makes what is left rare, right?" She doesn't wait for him to answer. "Well, and it's a good thing I'm here to tell you this Luke Danes, modern conspiracy theorists have it by reliable sources that the government is producing fake buffalo head nickels—coins that resemble pennies, but Lincoln's nose is twitched up and, ok it's not a buffalo head, or a nickel, but it _is_ a rarity so, in essence, it's like the 'new age buffalo head,' you know, so the term still fits, and these poor, deceived, hard-working people will be running around trying to find the twitching nose Lincolns and…"

"Aw, jeez," Luke shakes his head, cutting her off as he takes off his cap and runs his fingers through his hair.

"What?" she asks innocently.

"Lorelai…tell me you just made that up. You can't possibly believe that."

"Luke, it was in the _National Enquirer_!"

"Since when do you read that trash?"

"You never know Luke, you never know…you gotta get all the information you can these days. That's what Rory's always saying."

"Rory's telling you to read the _National Enquirer_?"

"Well, no, Rory reads like seven different national newspapers and watches three different TV newscasts before going to bed, but the advice holds." She gives him one of her 'I win' grins. "Besides, not only am I well informed about the latest alien sightings, but the entertainment value of the thousand pound Siamese twins giving birth to cat head babies is unrivaled. And to think my daughter is wasting her time with CNN…"

"Lorelai…" he starts, but then, for the life of him, he can't come up with anything to finish the sentence with. What does one say to a lunatic he wonders.

"Yes, Luke?" she says so sweetly it almost comes out as a song.

He shakes his head as they continue walking again. "Nevermind, Lorelai, nevermind."

"Don't worry Luke," she sing-songs beside him. "We'll find you a fake buffalo head nickel if it's the last thing we do. Afterall, this is New York and all good conspiracies start in New York."

He gives her a sideways glance. "Lemme guess, _National Enquirer_ told you that too?"

She rolls her eyes at him in the most dramatic fashion she can manage. "Of course not Luke. It was in _Star_."

He laughs in spite of himself. "Of _course_," he repeats.

Now, he's not sure how exactly it happened, but next time he looks up they're in a park. Probably not Central Park, this doesn't seem to be the right location for that, but it's green and has gravel paths and wooden benches and a few scattered maple trees and even a dad and his kid playing catch over by the fountain to the far left. It's not what he thinks of when he thinks 'New York' and he'll never understand how such evidence of, well…normalcy? humanity?…can just appear in the midst of this city of concrete. But it does. And it gives him hope.

Their toes hit the grass, his shoes sinking just hair into the ground that's still soft from the rain of yesterday, the pouring that had left him on his knees staring after the retreating figure of the only person in the world that could make breathing feel like a gift. Now though, the rain had gone and the aftermath of softness remained. He looked around. He _knew_ this—he knew the give of the green blades beneath his feet, he knew the smell of maple sap, he knew the steady _stwack_ of a ball hitting a well oiled leather fielder's mitt. Oh, they were in her city still, but they were on his territory now.

He's not sure who steers who, but somehow or another they seem to guide each other to a nearby bench and he smiles with an almost unfamiliar ease as their weights creak the wooden boards and their backs settle against the heads of rusty nails. The boy, in a yellow t-shirt a size too big and blue cap that fits him just right, is now straight across from Luke, shielding his eyes from the sun as he traces the path of a pop-up a mere fifteen yards away.

They sit in a comfortable silence for minutes—maybe three, maybe nine—Luke's not sure and he doesn't really care. Pigeons peck at the path near their feet, two squirrels chase each other up, down, and around an adjacent tree.

"So have you played catch with April yet?" Lorelai breaks his daze and what surprises him more than her willingness to discuss his daughter, the symbolic figure, he knows, of the gateway to so much of her pain, is the fact that, of all the places her eyes could have been wandering, it is the boy and his father playing catch that she has chosen to watch. He is not sure what that says to him, but he feels it means something.

He clears his throat and replies, "No, no I haven't." He wants to keep talking, wants this conversation, any conversation to continue so he adds, "She's not exactly the outdoors-y type." He chuckles.

"Nor the athletic type?"

"No," he agrees, thinking of baseball, but then quickly refocuses, remembers, and corrects himself. "Well, no and yes. Depends on the athletic, I suppose."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. She still swims actually. She's pretty good too. Really likes it."

"That's great, Luke."

"Yeah," he smiles, genuinely. "It is. Figures out of all the sports I know things about she picks one I've never had anything to do with. I was back to getting books from the library again…ducking into the kitchen to figure out the jargon she's using. But it's not a bad thing, you know? Like it sounds like it should be, like it should be bothersome, or disappointing maybe, but it's not. It's fun actually…" He laughs. "I've never understood exactly why that is, but that's how it is."

She laughs too and he knows that they're sharing something. He's inside something, a part of her, that he could never have understood before. He's inside this world of parenting that is her life at its core and it amazes him and overwhelms him that there is still so much he can discover about her. So much he can still discover about himself. "It's a very fun thing," she agrees. "God, when I had to research King Whoever the 27th in school I just wanted to beat myself over the head with the textbook. But when Rory read King Lear and decided we must have royal blood somewhere—she was probably in middle school, or something equally surreal in terms of youth, and still perceived my parent's house as a castle—we spent an entire summer researching every king, queen, and court jester—that one was my idea—in the history of England, France, Spain, and Portugal—don't ask me how Portugal got in there, apparently Rory thought they were overlooked. It was the summer of history research projects—it was books and books on tape and history channel documentaries. It was everything I've always hated. Except this time I didn't, this time I loved it. And when the phase was over and she had moved on to the poets of the beat generation, you know what? I missed King Henry and the serfs and the armor and the "Let them eat cake!"" She laughs and shakes her head. "Who would have thought, right?" Looking up, her eyes trace his face and she smiles at him, "It's always different when it's your kid, Luke. It changes everything."

He smiles back because she's not _telling_ him, but she's agreeing with him somehow. He's a parent. He's in the club. And man, oh man, if that membership card, the one signed and dated by Lorelai Gilmore, mother of the century, didn't mean the world in a bucket, he didn't know what did. "Yeah," he agrees back. "Yeah."

She takes a breath and when she speaks again her eyes are in her lap. Her fingers are wrapping and unwrapping themselves around the strap of her purse. "I think, um, you know, maybe she should…play catch with you, I mean. Just, some time…"

He shrugs, eyes on the airborne baseball. "It's not a big deal, Lorelai…"

"It is." And the way she rushes the words out surprises them both. "I mean, I know she's a kid and she probably doesn't really understand yet, it…it takes awhile to learn, but it's just…sometimes you need to play catch, even if you hate the way your hand does that been-in-the-bathtub-too-long wrinkly thing every time it sits inside one of those gloves and you hate the way it smells like old gym socks in there even though God knows why there'd be a gym sock in a baseball glove and you hate that you know there is no way on earth you can catch that stupid little spinning ball rocketing at your head at lightening speed while you stand in front of it with your eyes squeezed shut like a blind man with a death wish…" she stops for a moment, breathes, and restarts. "The point is, catch is important to you, so you should have someone who is willing to play catch…"

Luke was lost, which wasn't unusual when talking to Lorelai but given the circumstances he wished she'd give him something to grab onto. He had a distinct feeling they weren't really talking about April anymore. He continued with the cover conversation anyway. "I don't want someone willing to play catch, I want April. My April. Catch, no catch, it doesn't make a difference. Some things just aren't that important."

He thought he saw her bite her lip, but he couldn't be sure as he watched her stare off into father-son game. "Some things are."

Luke tugged a bit on the brim of his hat, leaned his elbows onto his knees, hunched his shoulders, and balled one hand into a fist, letting the other curl around it, giving his chin a place to rest as he turned to look at her. He knew she felt guilty—guilty about some things that were her fault and guilty about some things that weren't her fault. She had that look, that protective mother look going—the one that indicated self-sacrifice and a small twist of martyrdom. He didn't know what exactly was going through her head, but he sure didn't like where it was going. "Lorelai, I don't know what to tell you," he replied honestly, very honestly, "except that I know what I want. I know what makes me happy and, these days, I go after it."


End file.
